-  -••• 


- 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GREEN     LEAVES 


GREEN    LEAVES 


BY 
FLORENCE    RIPLEY   MASTIN 


JAMES   T.   WHITE   &   CO. 

NEW  YORK 
1918 


Thanks  are  due  to  Poetry:  a  Magazine  of  Verse,  Chi 
cago;  The  Independent,  The  Masses,  The  Liberator,  Every 
body's,  The  Poetry  Journal,  Collier's,  Leslie's,  The 
New  York  Times,  The  Sun,  The  Tribune,  Pearson's, 
The  Survey  and  The  Pictorial  Review  for  permission 
to  republish  many  of  these  poems. 


COPYRIGHT    19IB.    BY 
JAMES    T.    WHITE    a    CO..    NEW    YORK 


TO  ERASMUS   HALL, 
Beloved    of    many    associations. 


CONTENTS 


INDOORS 


THE  TEACHER  ...............................  13 

INK  POTS  ...................................  14 

SCHOOL  ROOM  SKETCHES 

I.    To  ANNE,  SIXTEEN  YEARS  OLD  ...........  15 

II.     AMERICUS  ..............................  16 

III.  ISIDOR    .................................  17 

IV.  MARY   .................................  18 

V.     HARRY  .................................  19 

VI.     PEARL   .................................  20 

VII.     STEPHEN  ...............................  21 

VIII.     JANET   .................................  22 

IX.    MARIE  .................................  23 

X.     PETER    .................................  24 

XI.     DOROTHY  ...............................  25 

XII.     BARBARA  ...............................  26 

XIII.  DOMINIC  ...............................  27 

XIV.  CONSTANCE  ....................  .........  28 

XV.    RODERICK  ...............................  29 

XVI.     LUCRETIA  ...............................  30 

XVII.     HYMAN  ................................  31 

XVIII.     ALICE  ..................................  32 

XIX.     ROBERT  ..............  ....................  33 

XX.     DAVID   .................................  34 

COMMENCEMENT   ................................  35 


OUTDOORS 

THE  CALL  38 

A  MANHATTAN  YARD 39 

THE   REPORTER 40 

I  WALKED  AMONG  GRAY  TREES 41 

WERE  ONE  WISH  MINE 42 

MOTH  MOON   43 

TOUCH 44 

A  GIRL'S  THOUGHT 45 

THE  MAGIC  BOWL 46 

MY  PATCH  OF  GREEN 47 

To  ONE  LOVED 48 

DISCOVERY _ 49 

THE   OLD-FASHIONED   GARDEN 50 

TWILIGHT  WIND 51 

SUMMER  NIGHT 52 

RAIN  AT  NIGHT 53 

THE  OLD  SHEEP 54 

DREAM  FREE   55 

ETCHING  56 

DRYAD 57 

THE  DEAF  MUTE 58 

THE  VACATION  59 

THE  CHILD 60 

MOODS 61 

SHADOWS  ON  BEDFORD  HILL 62 

OCTOBER   63 

DUST 64 

Now  I  HAVE  LIVED  WITH  BEAUTY 65 


REMEMBRANCE 

THE  SCHOOL-MASTER  OF  ERASMUS  HALL 69 

THE  JOURNEYMAN 71 

THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL 72 

AN  OLD  FRIEND 73 

MY   GRAND-AUNT'S  PATCHWORK   QUILT 74 

GLAMOUR  76 

To  C.  H.  L.  F 77 

To  V 78 

POSSESSION  79 

MY  OLD  NURSE 80 

LAUGHING  JOHN 81 

CALIBAN  AT  THE   STADIUM 82 

TORCHES 83 

THE    POET 84 

POETRY 85 

IN  THE  SUBWAY 86 

THE  DREAM  87 

To  INEZ  MILHOLLAND  BOISSEVAIN 88 

AN  OLDER  WOMAN  TO  A  YOUNGER 89 

A  YOUNGER  WOMAN  TO  AN  OLDER 91 

To  A  TRAINED  NURSE 92 

ON  REVISITING  BARNARD  COLLEGE 93 

To  THE  HUDSON  RIVER 94 

HICKORY  FIRE 95 

SAFE 96 


BARE  BRANCHES 

NIGHT  FELL , 99 

THERE'S  A  LILY  FIELD 100 

THE  DOCTOR   101 

AT  THE  MOVIES 102 

THE  FOUR 103 

THE  NURSE  SPEAKS 104 

THE  BRETON 105 

OUR  MOTHER  OF  THE  TRENCHES 106 

THE  SHARP  SHOOTER 107 

EUGENE  SUREAU,  79™  TERRITORIALS 108 

BY  THE  LANES  OF  AIR  109 

"THERE  Is  NOTHING  TO  REPORT" no 

PATROL in 

THE  FUGITIVE   112 

LITTLE  WHITE  CURTAINS 114 

THE  FROGS  OF  FLANDERS 115 

THE  TORCH  OF  LIBERTY 116 

THE  WOMEN  SPEAK..                                             .  118 


10 


INDOORS 


11 


THE   TEACHER 

THEY    have    passed    and    gone    up    the    windy    hill, 
And  the  room  is  dim  and  still ; 
And   four   o'clock   this   afternoon 
Drifts    in    the    pale    white    moon. 
Over  the   floor  of  dust  and   stains 
It  makes  soft,  pearly  lanes; 

And    I    sit    in    my   chair    and   think,    and    think, 
Watching    the    great    room    shrink. 
The    ghostly    desks    are    facing   me — 
Each  one  is  facing  me, 

And    I    feel,   in   the   winter   dusk,    the   heart 
Of   the   old    room   touch   my   heart. 
Outside  the  pane,  a  tree  sways  black, 
Like    a    dwarf    with    a    heavy    pack — 
A  pack  of  stars  from  the  twilight  hill, 
And  the  room  is  very  still. 
The  day  has   emptied   my  jeweled   pack ; 
It  must  brim  ere  they  come  back, 
Starry    lads    and    girls    who    speak, 
Dreaming,   so   near  my  cheek. 
Ah !  I   must   steal   from   the   sky   each   gem, 
And    fashion    it   bright   for   them, 
Else  how  shall  I  meet  their  morning  eyes — 
Their   eyes  that   are  young  and   wise? 


13 


INK  POTS 

FUZZY-HEADED   youngsters 
Dipping  into  ink, 
On   a   shining  April   day 
Trying  to  think ! 

Wouldn't  it  be   better 

To  run  them  like  the  hounds 
Up   across  the  crocus  fields 

Till   the  heart  bounds? 

Ink   pots   are  for  old   men 

Blinking   in    the    sun ; 
Boys  and  girls  are  slim  and  free 

To    run,    run,    run! 


14 


SCHOOLROOM  SKETCHES 


TO    ANNE,    SIXTEEN    YEARS    OLD 

THIN  girl  in  the  worn  dress, 
I   would   bring   pear   buds, 
And    plait   them   for   you ; 
I   would   plait  you   girdles 
Of   sweet   pear  buds, 
Until  your  mouth  smiled. 

I   would   bring  wind   flowers 
For    a    silken    petticoat, 
And    blue-bells 
For    your    arms — 
Child,  I  cannot. 

But  here   is   a   poet's  book; 
He   has  written   of   flowers. 


15 


it 

AMERICUS 

A  LITTLE  pulse  throbbed  in  his  throat 
When  he  recited.     Homely  things, 
Wee  thoughts  like  grubs,  had  faerie  wings 
For   him.     His   dark   eyes   held   the   sun 
Mystical.     In  a   room  unlit, 
He  was  my  taper;  and  the  tune 
Of  his  voice  was  like  the  laugh  in  June 
Of   a   child    surprised   with   loveliness! 


16 


III. 

ISIDOR 

corner   where   he   sat 
•A.    Was   gnomed   with   naughtiness; 
His  nickname  was  "The  Sprat," 
His    size    was    even    less. 

Poor,    wide-eared    little    lad, 
So    dirty    and    so   bad ; 
Just  once  I   found  your  heart, 
And   there   were   aches   in   there; 
Yet    still    you    play   your    part, 
Elfish    and    debonair. 


17 


IV. 
MARY 

MARY,  my  gray-eyed  dreamer, 
What  lies  folded  in  your  heart 
For  the  years  to  be? 

One  day  I  see  a  sheaf 

Of    oriole    song, 

And  then  —  a  nodding  babe. 


18 


V. 

HARRY 

HARRY,  bless  him,   is  an  Irish  boy, 
With  starry  Irish  eyes  and  flecks  of  red 
In   either  cheek.      He  wears  dark  corduroy 
That's   always   dusty   from   his   scrimmaging. 

He  is  a  rogue,  and  does  not  love  his  book — 
But,   somehow,  there  is  glamour  in  my  thought 
Of  him ;  he  lights  a  dull  day  with  his  look, 
And  brings  me  in  the  smell  of  leaves  and  turf. 


VI. 

PEARL 

SLOW,  black-skinned  Pearl,  with  wide,  dull  eyes! 
At    first   your   name, 
That    made    the    thoughtless    laugh, 
Seemed   irony ; 
Now  that  I  know  you — 
Know  that  misty  mind, 
That    spirit   vague    and    blurred — 
You   seem  well  named. 


20 


VII. 

STEPHEN 

STEVE,  the  funny  fat  boy, 
Steve,    the    happy   clown! 
Yes,   also  this — 
I  see  it  in  his  brown, 
Strong,   homespun   mind — 
Tenacity. 
And    this — 
I  see  it  in  his  hand — 
Great  force  and  wit. 
One  day  he  will  command ; 
A  builder  he, 
An   architect  of  men. 


21 


VIII. 

JANET 

JANET  has  a   perfect  mind, 
Black-lettered,   pigeon-holed — 
Ah,   very   neat  indeed ! 

Some   day,  what   proper  pie, 
What  flawless  jelly  she  will  make! 


22 


IX. 

MARIE 

HER  smouldering  eyes  belie  her  name; 
She  is   a  Russian  Nihilist. 
I   hear   strange   forests   in   her  voice ; 
Storm  murmurs  there  and  cries  go  up 
To    an    uncandled   night. 

Amid  the  young  complacency 
Of   all  the   rest,   she   is   remote, 
And  darkened  as  with  suffering. 


23 


PETER 

SMALL   Peter   tightly   cropped, 
And  blinking  pale   round  eyes, 
Like  a  puppy  lately  rolled  in  straw — 
Odysseus   found  you   out! 

You  are  a  rover  on  the  wine  dark  sea, 

A  loiterer  in  Circe's  house. 

When  will  Athene  make  your  hair  to  curl, 

As   the   dusky  hyacinth, 

And  fashion  your  round  form 

Slender   and  god-like? 


24 


XL 
DOROTHY 

AH!     The  bright-eyed  little  wren, 
Fastidious,  picking  up  seeds  of  wisdom! 
Only  tender  ones  and  sweet  can  tempt  her; 
Bitter   frost   and    storm    she   knows   not. 
If  they  come,  she  will  die; 
And  yet  I  would  not  have  her  different; 
A  glossy  throat  is  precious; 
There  are  nests  of  down 
Enough  to  pleasure  her  till  spring. 


m 

BARBARA 

BENDING  down   apple-boughs, 
That  always  stain  me  with  their  dusky  bark, 
I  love  to  feel  the  breathing  of  pink  buds; 
No  other  flower  of  spring 
Is  quite  like  this,  so  rugged-sweet. 

That's  Barbara,  sheathed  with  earth-strength; 
And  yet  intrigued  into  the  quaintest  blossoming. 


26 


XIII. 
DOMINIC 

TO  be  sure,  he  wore  a  faded  coat, 
But  his  eyes  were  very  bright; 
And   he  touched   his   book   so   happily 
That  my  throat  got  tight. 

Another  boy  with  jaunty  curls     , 

Came  laughingly  to  me ; 
"I've  a  beautiful  book  of  pictures 

At  home,"    said   he. 

Dominic  listened,   and   then   he   said 

"How  lucky,"  very  low ; 
All  afternoon  he  seemed  to  dream, 

With   eyes   aglow. 

Next  day  he  made  a  picture, 

Delicate,  vivid,  fine; 
But  my  little  boy  with  jaunty  curls 

Drew  not  a  line. 


27 


XIV. 
CONSTANCE 

LITTLE    poplar   tree, 
Dancing  in  the  moon; 
That  is  what  you're  going  to  be 
Some  June. 

Now  you  shake  your  curls ; 
You  will  never  go 
Frolicking  like  other  girls, 
But,  I  know! 


28 


XV. 
RODERICK 

THE   stripling   Scot! 
His  cold,  proud  face  had  troubled  me; 
What  had  I  known  of  him? 

Then  one  day  as  he  stood,  grey-eyed,  austere, 
I  knew. 

A  shining  ribbon  from  a  girl's  brown  hair 
Had  brushed  his  hand  upon  the  desk; 
He  drew  back  slightly. 

Cromwell,  Cromwell! 

I  wonder  if  in  Scotland  .  .  . 


XVI. 
LUCRETIA 

YOUR  beauty  is  as  russet  fruit, 
Sun-warmed,  fragrant, 
In  a  northern  room. 

Down  in  your  eyes  I  hear  the  young  girls  sing 
In  Toledo's  summer  fields; 
Your  step  is  firm  as  though  it  trod  the  grape, 
And  your  dark  head  is  high  as  though  you  bore 
To  me  a  brimming  gourd. 


30 


XVII. 
HYMAN 


HE  wrote  to-day  in  little  sprawling  lines: 
"The  Valley  of  the  Many  Colored  Grass  is  beautiful, 
But  it  is  what  I  call   a  dead  place. 
I  like  the  city,  full  of  life." 

O  child,  who  never  listened  at  a  tulip  bell! 


81 


XVIII. 
ALICE 

MY  little  one, 
So   starched   and  prim, 
With  many  frills, 
You  are  as  sweet  as  lettuce; 

I  dread  to  see  your  crisp  bud 
Withering ; 

I  dread  still  more 
To  see  your  freshness 
Green  the  plate  of  life. 


XIX. 
ROBERT 

HIS  brown  hair  blurred  with  light; 
The  sun  made  it  a  misty  aureole. 
At  the   chapel  organ 
With   sensitive  face   uplifted, 
He   played   as   though   he   answered 
High  music  far  away. 


33 


XX. 
DAVID 

DAVID,  you    failed— 
Yet  every  face   is  dim  but  yours. 

David,   you   failed  — 

Yet  still  I  see  your  hands. 

You  will  always  fail. 

You  are  too  big  to  succeed 

In  the  swift  years  before  death. 


34 


COMMENCEMENl 

r  I  ^HE  violins  are  hushed,  the  organ  mute. 

J-     Beyond    the   chapel   windows,    through   the   trees, 
Pale  lanterns  dance  like  fireflies,  and  the  flute 
Of  a  girl's  voice  comes  flickering  on  the  breeze  — 
Soft  music   played   in   darkness.     Quietly 
I  linger  in  the  shadowy  aisles  to  see 
Again   in   dream  those  faces  like  a  misty  crowd 
Of  stars  uplifted  —  Youth's  Solemnity 
And   vivid  Rapture   listening.     A  cloud 
Is  on  my  eyes ;   I  cannot  see  them  more  — 
My    boys    and    girls    are    gone    from    me;    the    door 
Has   closed ;    a    night   moth    flutters    dusty    wings 
Against  my  face,   and   on   the  moonlit   floor 
A   small   black  cricket  sings   and  sings. 

And  yet,  they  have  not  wholly  left  me  here; 
To-morrow    I    shall    travel    everywhere, 
Upon  the  land,  the  sea,  in  the  perilous  air, 
With  those  who  hold  me  dear. 

This  is  my  pride,  my  precious,  secret  boast, 
That  every  boy  has  some  time  felt  my  hand 
Upon  him.  So  one  day  his  clear  command, 
Before  an  august  host, 


35 


Will  hear  my  voice.    And  one   who  goes  in  ships 
Will  carry  me  upon  the  tropic  night, 
And    we    shall    steer    beneath   the    blossom-white 
Big    stars   with   laughing   lips. 

I   shall   labor  with   a   gallant   girl   in   pain, 
Turning    to    me    as    in    the    years    ago 
Over  her  task ;  upon  her  heart's  fierce  glow 
I   would   be   soft   as   rain. 

I   shall  walk  gently  by  the  side  of  her 
Who  goes  alone,  fighting  for  bitter  bread ; 
She  will  remember  what  it  was  I  said ; 
Perhaps   her  heart   will   stir. 

This   is   my  compensation: — I    am   borne 

Forever  on  their  bosoms; 

I  cannot  stay  behind  the   opening  gate. 

God  of  my  children,  for  them,  make  me  great! 


36 


OUTDOORS 


37 


THE  CALL 

LYING   awake  at  night, 
I  heard   across  the  hill 
The  ghostly  whistles; 

And  the  butternuts,  with  twisted  branches  in  the  moon 
Have  trembled   in   the  wind   no  more   than  I 
At  the   sweet  calling. 

Past   the   orchard, 
Past  the  hillside, 
And  beyond  — 
The  ghostly  whistles. 


A   MANHATTAN   YARD 

MY  small  room  opens  on  a  city  yard, 
Where    never    a    space    for    Spring's    dance    can 

there  be, 

For  the  cold,  huddled  stones  with  faces  hard 
Heed    not    at   all    the   gray   wind's    minstrelsy; 

And  yet,  when  darkness  falls,  I  feel  out  there 
Most   certainly    an    orchard's   murmuring, 

A&  though   small   buds,   in   rain-washed   April   air, 
Were  lifting  up  their  heads  to  smell  of  Spring. 

Perchance  long  years  ago  in  this  bare  place 
An  old   Dutch  garden  grew   in  grave   delight. 

And    now    pale    buds    and    flowers    with    phantom    face 
Slip  back  to  dream  away  the  wistful  night. 


THE  REPORTER 


IN  the  March  stillness, 
I  heard  a  woodpecker 
Up  the  hill, 
Near  the  blue   painted   sky. 

He  had   captured   all   my   news; 
"Tap,  tap,"  went  his  typewriter. 


40 


I 


I  WALKED  AMONG  GRAY  TREES 

WALKED   among  gray  trees  with  Grief. 
My  soul  was   stark   as  the   shattered   leaf ; 


Yea,  all  things  but  the  cold  lipped  Frost 
And  Grief  that  walked  with  me,  seemed  lost- 
Then  from  a  black  tree  swaying  near 
A  robin  whistled  sweet  and  clear; 

Lo!  as  I  turned  to  look  at  Grief, 
A  shining  crown  of  April  leaf 

Upon  her  brow  —  a  magic  thing 

She,  smiling,  said,  "My  heart  is  Spring." 


41 


WERE  ONE  WISH  MINE 

WERE  one   wish  mine,   on  April   night 
Of  lilac  moon  and   little  buds  tight 
In  the  lane,  this  would  I  choose  to  be, 
Stripped    and    free    of   cloak    and    shirt — 
A  smooth,  green  blade  in  ecstasy, 
Pushing  up  through  the   rough,  black  dirt! 


42 


MOTH  MOON 

MOTH  MOON,  a-flutter  in  the  lilac  tree, 
With  pollen  of  the  white  stars  on  thy  wings. 
Oh!   would   I   shared  thy  flight,  thy  fantasy, 
The   aimless  beauty  of  thy  brightenings ! 
A   worker,   wed   to   Purposes   and   Things, 
Earth-worn  I  turn  from  Day's  sufficiency. 
One  lethed  hour  that  duty  never  brings, 
Oh !  one  dim  hour  to  drift,  Moth  moon,  with  thee ! 


43 


TOUCH 

THE  chilly  grain  of   earth 
That   packs  the  violet; 
The  feel  of  a  tree's  rough  shoulder 
And   the   silken  palms   of  leaves; 
The   golden-blowing    sun    upon    the    hair 
Strapped  tight  all  winter  into  velvet  cloth- 
Ah!    touch    of    Spring,    my    beautiful! 


44 


A  GIRL'S  THOUGHT 

DEAR    strong   one, 
Do  you  not  know  how  easily 
You   can   open   my   locked   heart 
This  June  night, 
While   the  owls  call  in   thick  leaved   trees? 


45 


THE    MAGIC    BOWL 

AN  old  brown  earthen  bowl, 
Crowded    with    dead    flowers, 
And  cracked  with  cold, 
Lies   forgotten   in   the   garden. 
There   is   no   heart  tender  enough 
To    remember   the   beauty   that    it   sphered ; 
There   is   no  hand   soft  enough 
To  break  the  frost  upon  its  rim, 
And  tip  it  to  the  sun. 

And  yet,  to-day 

Up  through  its  cracks 

Came  spirts  of  green  and  golden  flames. 

Now  all  the  house  will  find  it, 

And  delight  in  it. 


46 


MY  PATCH  OF  GREEN 

ONE   narrow   little   fenced-in   plot 
Below  dark  roofs  is  all  I've  got 

In  way   of  May; 

But  here  warm  buds  and  little  things, 
That  push  above  the  ground  bright  wings, 
Make  holiday. 

I,   in   their   midst,    am   happy   quite 
To  see  my  cherry's  misty  white 

Above  me  lean; 

To  mark  the  rain  upon  the  twigs, 
And  touch   round   heads   in  tiny  wigs 

Of  fuzzy  green. 

Because  the  city  roars  so  near, 

I  hold  my  patch  of  green  more  dear. 


47 


TO  ONE  LOVED 

NOW  you  have  grown  so  very  dear  to  me, 
Your  touch  is  precious  as  new  leaves; 
And  your  long  look  takes  my  thought  wavering 
Off  to  the  green  hills  .  .  . 
Oh!  on  this  day  of  spring's  return, 
Let  us  break  our  way  into  the  budded  places! 


48 


DISCOVERY 

THE  gray  path  glided  before  me 
Through  cool,  green  shadows; 
Little  leaves  hung  in  the  soft  air 
Like  drowsy  moths ; 

A  group  of  dark  trees,  gravely  conferring, 
Made  me  conscious  of  the  gaucherie  of  sound ; 
Farther   on,    a   slim   lilac 
Drew  me  down  to  her  on  the  warm  grass. 
"How  sweet  is  peace!" 
My   serene  heart   said. 

Then,  suddenly,  in  a  curve  of  the  road, 

Red  tulips! 

A  bright  battalion,  swaying, 

They  marched  with  fluttering  flags, 

And  gay  fifes  playing! 

A  swift  flame  leapt  in  my  heart; 

I  burned  with  passion; 

I  was  tainted  with  cruelty; 

I  wanted  to  march  in  the  wind, 

To  tear  the  silence  with  gay  music, 

And  to  slash  the  sober  green 

Until  it  sobbed   and  bled. 

The  tulips  have  found  me  out. 
49 


THE  OLD  FASHIONED  GARDEN 

YOU   round  a  long  green  curve  of  trees, 
And  there  it  is.     A  Paisley  shawl 
Has  not  the  pattern  or  the  grace 
Of  this  old   fashioned  place ; 
Bright  groups   of   budded   peonies 
Exchange   fine    secrets ;    silken   gowned 
Poppies   idly    sip    the    sun, 
And  pansies,  prim  in  little  mitts 
And   bonnets,   whisper   bits 
Of  gossip ;  through  the  leafy  ground 
A  blackbird  walks,  and  cocks  his  head, 
As  though  he  said,   "I'm  favorite  here, 
And  motorists  may  not  come  near." 


50 


TWILIGHT   WIND 

Wind  is  walking  in  the  garden. 
-1-     He  is  a  pale  Mandarin 
With  silken  shoes, 
And  a  soft  coat  blowing  against  the  leaves. 

I  wish  he  would  open  his  basket; 
He    has    visited    many    trees    to-day, 
And  there  is  fruit  that  I  would  taste. 


61 


SUMMER  NIGHT 

BUBBLES    of   dew    are   on   the   grass, 
The   park   is   a   basket   of   dew; 
Put  on  your  soft  and  hairy  shoes, 
And  your  coat  of  berry-blue. 

I    am    worn    with    sun — the    silken    sun 
That   binds    my   throat.     O   free, 

Pale  lover,  tear  the  hidden  leaves, 
And  pluck  the  dark  for  me! 


52 


R 


RAIN  AT  NIGHT 
AIN,  rain  on  the  leaves  .  .  . 


As  a  grinning  negro  catches  crabs 

By  lantern-light, 

And,  having  drawn  them  from  the  dark  water, 

Places  them  in  a  sack, 

Where  they  gurgle  and  bubble, 

So  Night,  squatting  over  the  black  bag  of  earth, 
Has  caught  the  scuttling  raindrops. 

Their  low  hissing  makes  me  drowsy  .  .  . 


53 


THE    OLD    SHEEP 

THE   old    sheep   came   with    solemn   eyes 
And   dusty,    gentle   feet; 

"What   have   you   in   your   pack,   old    sheep, 
That   is   delicate   and    sweet?" 

"I   have    a   beautiful   dream,"    she   said. 

So  she  poured  it  out  for  me — 
A  beautiful   dream   like   a   crystal   light, 

That  flows  in  a  cave  of  the  sea. 

There  were   stars  in  it,   and   a  dear  voice, 

And    a   green   path   up    a   hill ; 
And   the   trembling   of   waters 

Where   the   dusk   is   cool   and   still ; 

And  there  was  a  hand  I  love, 

Gentle  upon  my  face, 
And   whippoorwills   were   crying 

In   a   little   dim   place. 

The  old  sheep  came  with  solemn  eyes 
Aud   dusty,   gentle   feet  .  .  . 

The  old  sheep  cdme  .  .  the  old  sheep  came  .  .  . 

And  what  .  .  and  what  .  .  was  the  old   sheep's  name? 

Her  name  .  .  her  name  .  .  .  was  ....  sleep. 

54 


DREAM   FREE 

THE  white  stars  opened  to  the  night  like  flowers; 
June  shadowed"  through  the  hills  the  road  ran  free. 
Light-footed,   stripped,   wind-mad,   with   ecstasy 
We  raced  the   riding  moon — you   raced  with  me. 
Along  the  dipping  path,  dim  pearled   showers 
Of  roving  starlight  pattered  at  our  feet. 
Night   long,   exultant,   did   our   full   hearts   beat: 
And  yet  to-day  quite  calmly  must  we   meet! 


55 


A' 


ETCHING 

ND   I   shall   ever   see  you   standing  thus, 
Beneath   the   dark   oak   on   the    rounded    dune. 
The  western  sun  is  bright  upon  your  hair, 
The   sun-burned   marsh   behind   you    flames   and    sways; 
And   so  it  seems  that  you  will   flame   and   sway 
From   out   the    sunset   to   the   misty   sea, 
And  the  green  dusk  will  carry  you  away 
From  me  . 


56 


DRYAD 

f  I  ^HE  brown  sand  path  is  cool ; 

•*•    It  flutters  across  the  pale  feet  of  the  trees 
Between    ocean    and    bay; 
It   winds   among   the   little   green    leaves 
Into   the   sunset. 

Your   feet   flash   down   the   cool,   brown   path; 
You   are   running  from  the   cold   sea 
Into    the    warm    sunset   where    the    bay    glistens. 
Hist!     The   oak   tree — 

It   is   poised   in   your   path   with   wide   arms 
Against   the    sunset. 
You   cannot   pass   it, 
Green   eyes, 
Green  coat, 

You  belong  in  these  tree  depths; 
Melt  into  the  warm  trunk,  Dryad! 
When  the  white  moon  burns  the  dark  leaves, 
And   spatters  fire  on  the   ground, 
I   shall  come  back  to  caress  your  breast, 
And  kiss  your  pale  hands  .  .  . 


57 


THE  DEAF  MUTE 

HE  walks  within  the  dim,  blue  dusk 
When   shadows   flood   the   beach; 
His  form  is  like  a  withered  husk; 

He's  deaf  and  strange  of  speech. 

The  sea  is  in  his  gazing  eyes, 

Dark  shadowed,  grey  and  sweet; 

He  walks  alone  beneath  wide  skies 
With  silent  feet. 

Against  the   sunset  cloud   he   stands 

Upon  the  lonely  dunes; 
His  caged  soul  flutters  down  the  sands 

Where    the    grey    sea    croons. 

In  some  blue  dusk  for  him  will  fall 
An  hour;   unknown  to  men, 

His  ear  will  catch  the  sea's  deep  call. 
How  sweet  his  singing  then! 


58 


THE    VACATION 

THE  minister  has  brought  them  down 
To  the  high  peaked  little  house — 
Hard-eyed  Peter,  pale  Marie, 

And  the  boy  in  a  new  blouse. 

They  rocked  all  day  on  the  back  porch ; 

The   sea  leapt  up  the  dune ; 
The  sand  was  painted  magical 

By  the  gold-tipped  moon; 

And   they  were   dozing   in  their  chairs 

As   dark   came   beautifully 
With  mist  of  stars  and  buoy  bells 

To  the  porchless  sea. 


59 


THE  CHILD 

THE  twilight  of  the  sea 
Is   austere. 

There  is  no  laughter  there 
Nor   any  light; 
There   are  but   shadows 
And   a  solemn  breathing. 

Yet,  upon  a  grey  peaked  dune 

I  saw  a  child 

In  a  pinafore, 

The  color  of  the  sun. 

She  gazed   into  the   dusk 

And  then  she  clapped  her  hands. 

I  heard  her  sing. 


«0 


MOODS 

THE  cricket  watches  from  his  house  of  grass 
As    I    come   in    to   lie    with   him    and    drink 
The   moonlight.     There   is   solemn   space   to   think 
Upon    the    shadow   where    the    black    pines   pass 
Their  fingers  in  the  sea.     I  do  not  know 
If  it  were  sweeter  thus  in  dream  to  lie, 
Or,   stripped   to   the   taut   skin,   to   lightly   run 
Forgetful,   in   a   russet   autumn   sun, 
And    laugh    as   the   blue   tide   climbs   up   the    sky. 


61 


SHADOWS  ON  BEDFORD  HILL 

A  LITTLE    old    man    passed    up    with    a    basket    of 
leeks. 

Among  a  hundred  he  passed, 
Among  a  hundred   I   saw  him  sharply  etched. 

And    I   climbed   past  the   limousines    and   the    lamps, 

The  ringing  heels  on  cobbles, 

The  stone  facades  of  many  buildings 

Against  the   smoky   sunset; 

I   climbed   with  him   past  these   shadowy  things. 

Our  way  was  through  clear  light 

Upon   a   country  hill; 

The  branches  stirred   above  our  heads; 

All  the  bright  sky  was  pricked  with  treetops, 

And  up  the  road,  a  cottage  like  a  star. 


62 


OCTOBER 

THE   sunlight   falls   upon   me   in   red    leaves; 
They  cover  my  bare  throat. 
Oh!  to  run  with  the  west  wind — 
To   run   free   into   the   dusk, 
To   run   burning   and   free 
Into  the   autumn   silence ! 


63 


DUST 

MY  words  are  dust. 
I   who  would   build   a   star, 

I   who   would  touch  the  heel   of  the   white   sun ; 
Staggering   up   the    inaccessible    sky, 
I  look  upon  the  dust. 

The   stainless  clouds  go  mounting 

In    shining    spires; 

And  a  little  heap  of  dust 

Are   my   desires. 

Yet,  dwelling  long  upon  these  peaks 
Unchained   upon   the   flickering  western   sky, 
I   have   beheld   them   at   the   breath   of   darkness 
Fade  slowly  out  and  die. 

What  of  my  lineage? 
Arrogant    and    swift, 
/  I  bend  above  the  dust, 
Untouched  of  all  my  grief, 
Untarnished  of  the  hour, 
And  lo!   the   leaf— 
The  passionate  climbing  flower! 


64 


NOW  I  HAVE  LIVED  WITH  BEAUTY 

NOW   I   have   lived    with   Beauty,   touched   her   face, 
And   walked   beside  her  in  the   swaying  wood 
Above   the   sea,   I   know  there   is   no   good 
So   precious  as  her  perilous  bright  grace. 
Apart  from  her,  within  a  sombre  place, 
Watching  the   moon   unslip   her   silver  hood, 
I  have  discovered  currents  in  my  blood 
That  burn   and   leap   like  runners  in   a   race ; 
Yet,  for  I  know  that  she  is  calm  and  wise, 
I  may  not  see  her  face  again  until 
She  shall  appoint.     And  so  in  the  hot  light 
I  lie  dark-eyed,  and  watch  the  butterflies, 
Like  pale  winged  thoughts  of  her.     I  pray  she  will 
Remember,  and  return  to  me  to-night. 


65 


REMEMBRANCE 


67 


T 


THE   SCHOOLMASTER  OF  ERASMUS   HALL 
(Dr.  Walter  B.  Gunnison,  died  Dec.  19,   1916.) 
HE  Tower  knows  stars  and  thunder ;  all  the  winds 


-*-     Are   cradled   in   its   turrets,   and   the   storms. 
In  its  crevices  the  little  birds  of  spring 
Have  builded  nests,  and  through  the  ivy  come 
Sweet  twitterings.     Below   the   lofty   Hall 
Are  stately  trees  that  murmur  ancient  tales 
To  the  peaked  roofs  of  the  old  Academy. 
It  is   a  much-loved   spot,  where   memory, 
Crowned  with  green  leaves,  looks  eastward  to  the  dawn. 

On  a  starlit  night  of  June,  it  has  been  said 
That  in  the  old  Dutch  buildings  lights   are   seen, 
And   wooden   shoes  click   softly  to   and   fro ; 
But  with  the  day,  the  modern  city  wakes 
And  like  a  great  sea  beats  upon  the  doors. 

Men  have  builded   ships  that  ride  the  cloud 
And   brave  the   lightning;   there   are  those  like   gods 
Who  have  sown  the  darkened  earth  with  starry  light, 
And  curbed  the  invading  waters  of  the  sea ; 
But  greater  than  these  great,  a  man  of  men, 
The   Schoolmaster!     For  he  has  builded  Youth. 
Oh!    never   can   the   tempest   rend   the   dreams 
That  he   has  launched   across  the   mists   of  space, 


69 


Nor  the  black  night  engulf  the  hills  of  green 

Whereon   his   flocks    are   pastured ;    all   that   time 

Has  given  men  will  die,  but  only  his, 

The  gift  of  Youth  in  long  procession, 

Can  never  pass — Youth  with  its  eternal  dream! 

Our  Master  of  Erasmus   Hall — so   long 

Our  Master — what  have  we  to  render  thee 

So   precious   as   the   life   that   thou    hast   wrought 

For  us?     Thy  daily  bread   of  gentleness 

Has  fed   our   spirits,   and   the   mellow   wine 

Of  thy  long,  sweet  experience  we  have  drunk. 

All  the  little  leaves  along  the  Quad, 

A-twinkle  in  the  sun,  seem  but  thy  eyes, 

So  grave   and  yet  so  droll   and  full  of  light! 

And  thy  great  strength,  as  quiet  as  the  Tower 

And  like  it,  near  the  thunder  and  the  stars, 

Is  ever  shielding  us — a  watchful  mind 

That  pierces  the  dark   night,   and   hails   the   dawn. 

Thy  heart  is  beating  in  the  time-stained  walls 

Of  the   old   Academy   we   love ;    and   there 

Thy  presence  will  remain,  as  roses  cling 

To  an  old  jar,  in  a  faded,  western  room 

Where  the  light  is  dim.     And  though  the  night  descend 

Upon  the  house,  the  fragrance  lingers  there. 


70 


THE   JOURNEYMAN 

To  Kate  E.  Turner,  Educator.* 

DWELLERS   of   the   house,   behold    it   fair! 
The    craftsman's    mark    is    on    the    shining    stone; 
Within  the  porches  lies  a  golden  air 
Where  the  sweet  sky  is  blown. 

A  cloth  of  light  is  honor  in  the  hall, 

And  lustrous  truth  and  loyalty  are  made 

As  chrysoprase  upon  the  dusky  wall, 
With  patient  craft  inlaid. 

Serenity  is  on  the  foreheads  here, 

Set  like   a   star ;    and   faith   and   gentleness. 

The   virtue   of   a   gallant  heart   is   near, 
That   shall    forever   bless. 

A  Journeyman,  with  cunning  craft  to  do, 
We  speed  her,  building  in  another  place 

With   art  as  fine   as  this — as  proud   and   true, 
And  touched  with  a  quaint  grace. 

The   loftiest  house   is   building   ever.     See ! 

Upon   the   sun  the   misty  turrets  climb, 
Beautiful   and   strong — immortally 

Above  the  dark  of  time. 

*  Written  when  Miss  Turner  left  the  Vice  Principalship 
of  Erasmus  Hall  to  become  Principal  of  Bay  Ridge  High 
School,  November,  1917. 

71 


THE  OLD   RED   SCHOOL 

I   CAME  upon  it  yesterday   at  noon, 
The  old  red  school,  how  very  small  it  seemed ! 
A  score  of  years  ago,  I  had  not  dreamed 
I'd  ever  want  to  go  to  school  in  June. 

Slow  wading  the  green  tangle  of  the  yard — 
That  yard  that  used  to  show  no  blade  of  grass — 
I  saw  a  shadowy  crowd  before  me  pass, 
A  merry  lot  with  bare  legs  brown   and  hard. 

They   pushed    and   jostled   through   the   black,   old   door1 
The  rusty  hinges  creaked ;   I  heard  the  bell, 
And  then  the  master's  voice  I  knew  so  well — 
How  loud  my  steps  across  the  dusty  floor! 

"Dreaming  again!"     The  master's  hand  came   down 
Upon  my  collar.     What  a  hand  he  had! 
I   never  thought  that  clutch  could   make   me   glad, 
I  who  had  scowled  beneath  his  kindly  frown! 

And  there  was  Joe,  a-carving  out  his  name 
Upon  his  desk  behind  his  spelling  book! 
Joe  who  is  dead,  yet  here  I  saw  him  crook 
His   arm,   and  cut  his  boyish  way  to   fame! 

Outside   the   broken    panes   the   bees   hummed    low. 
A    long    recess — how    swift   its    passage   then! 
I  brushed  the  cobwebs  from  a  shrunken  pen, 
And  crossed  the  clover  fields,  alone  and  slow. 


AN   OLD   FRIEND 

YOU    know   how    April   throws   her    shawl    of   green 
Upon   a   withered   hedge ;    and   as  you   look, 
She  shakes  the   sky  into  the   ancient  brook, 
And   pours   the   sunlight   where   the   frost   has   been? 
So  does  your  spirit,  though  your  shoulders  lean 
Beneath   the   winter  years.     The   greyest  nook 
Of  heart  you  find,  and  warm  it,  and  the  stock 
Of  faded  days  you  gild  with  tender  sheen. 

And  yet,  to  see  you   sitting  in  your  chair, 

One  would  not  think  of  you  as  the  young  spring, 

So  very  small  and  still  you  are,  and  white; 

But  suddenly  you  smile  at  me,  and  there 

Is  April !     In  your  eyes  the  wistful   light 

Of  beauty;  on  your  lips  a  blossoming. 


73 


MY   GRAND   AUNT'S  PATCHWORK   QUILT 

SEDATE    and    silent   little    quilt   of   mine, 
What  wonder   that  I   dream   at  thy  caress? 
Soft  forms  sway  phantom-like  in  curve  and  line ; 
Thy  flower  bright  patches  shimmer  into  dress. 

Within  this  bit  of  silk  as  blue  as  May, 
A  little  girl  in  hoops  is  curtsying  low ; 

Her  lover  dons  that  velvet  on  the  day 

When   all  the  blossoms  of  the   Springtide   blow. 

Such  snowy  satin  sheathes  a  lily  maid 
As  fair  as  one  in  Astolat  who  died ; 

And,  mischief  in  jade  green,  some  lad   is  paid 
Who   steals   a   kiss  while   sitting   by   thy   side ! 

0  stern  old  maid,  in  sober,  Sabbath  brown 

Of   silk   magnificent  that   stands   alone ! 

1  see  thee   look   askance  upon  the   gown, 

Peach  colored,  in  the  pew  beside  thine  own ! 

And  now,  behold !   within  that  sapphire  square, 
As  dusky  as  the  blue  of  summer  night, 

Beribboned  masters  pledging  to  their  fair, 

In  foaming  tankards  till  the  dawn  is  white! 


74 


Hark  how  the  music  of  the  minuet 

Calls  from  the  dim  brocade  each  shadowy  face ! 
It  seems  as  though  they  all  were  living  yet, 

Pale    lovers    swaying   slow    with    stately   grace. 

Dear  little  grand  aunt  in  the  silver  grey, 

Unconscious  of  thy  patchwork  wizardry! 

Thy   placid   hands   have    summoned   Yesterday, 

Down   pansy  'broidered   paths   of  dreams  to   me. 


75 


GLAMOUR 

AND  I  will  take  monotony, 
The  choking  given  by  the  wise — 
Even  the  lash  of  ugliness, 
For  the  rare  hour; 
Your  indolent  grace, 
The  glow  of  candles, 
In   a  high  blue   room; 
Your  laughter, 
The  low  wind, 
With  scent  of  pointed  bud  .  .  . 

And  the  arras  of  the  mind  shakes 
And  the  breath  comes   sharp. 


76 


TO  C.  H.  L.  F. 

THE  candle   flutters   on   the  wall, 
And  all  the  shadows  leap  at  me; 
Strange,  surging  voices  fall  and  fall — 
Then  mist,  and  coldness  like  the  sea. 

O  mist,  so  grey !     Not  yet ;  for  lo ! 
Her  eyes  upon  me  hold  the  light. 
Cold   sea!   not  yet;   for   suddenly 
Her  hand  upon  my  heart  is  warm! 


77 


TO  V 

AND   once  you   were   as   twilight. 
I    gathered    your    shadows    as    a    wreath, 
And   found   the   moonlight  in   them ; 

And  running  by  the  sea, 

I  glimpsed  you  with  dark  holly  in  your  hair, 

The   color   of   the    autumn   tide, 

Bitter  and   restless. 

There  was  always  dusk  upon  you — 
Dusk   with  the   light  of  the  wild   plum, 
Or   the    sunset   light. 

Now  the   shadows   are   gone. 

Ah!  the  voluptuous,  , 

The  brazen  day! 


78 


POSSESSION 


heart,  you  dwell  forevermore  so  close  to  me, 
That   I    but    raise    my   eyes   to    see   you    stand 
Here  In  the   room  when   dusk   is  near. 
I  need  but  stretch  my  hand 
To  hold  you,  dear. 

It   does   not   matter,   now,   if   you    must   go   from   me 
Along   the    sunset    road's    unending    space. 
Although  I,  too,   must  travel   far 
Upon  the  night,  your   face 
Will   be  my   star. 


79 


MY  OLD  NURSE 

WITHIN   my   dream   last  night   I    saw   her   stand 
Trimming    the    lamp    for    evening    use.     I    knew 
In  the  pale   light  that  dear,  familiar  hand 
So  well — a  knotted  hand,  yet  soft  as  dew. 
And   then   she   turned   and  gently  looked   at  me. 
Her  broad  white  apron  spread   like  a  calm  wing 
Across   my   dream.     I  heard   the  chestnut  tree 
Outside   the    window,    murmuring   of   spring. 
"Come,  dear,  it's  time  to  go  to  bed,"  she  smiled. 
The   moonlight  strayed  to  her  along  the  floor, 
And   crowned   her  hair;   then   I,   a   little   child, 
Went  softly  out  with  her,  and  closed  the  door. 
Sobbing  I  woke.     Within  the  winter  night 
I  lay  and  watched  the  lonely  room  grow  light. 


LAUGHING   JOHN 

THE    sight    of    buttercups   will    bring    him    back; 
For   often   on    a   day   of   windy   gold, 
Deep    in    the    lush    grass,    I    had    heard    him    call — 
A    slinking    man    of    laughter,    with    a    step 
That  grinded  violets,  and  hands  that  made 
Strange   pictures   on   the   sky. 

Upon  that  call 

I   snapped   the  heads  of  buttercups,   running 
Until  I  slammed  the  kitchen  door,  and  heard 
His   laughter   fade    as   smoke    across   the    hill. 


81 


CALIBAN  AT  THE  STADIUM 

audience  itself  is  Caliban. 
•*•    Monstrous   and   murmuring   beneath   the   stars, 
It   sees   slim   Beauty   pass,    and   Poetry, 
And  hears    the    thrilling    voice    of    Song.     So    crouched, 
Profoundly  moved  yet  inarticulate, 
Earth-bred,  yet  troubled   with  the   sense  of   God, 
In  the  starlit  dusk,  it  roars  and  crawls  away. 

O  Prospero,  magician  of  the  Light, 
Hold  with  thy  subtle  spell  this  man  of  sense! 
Keep  him  from  the  dark  cave  of  Setebos, 
And  mould  his  mighty  spirit  to  thy  will! 


82 


w 


THE   TORCHES 

HERE   was    Shakespeare   when   the   dream   came 
First   upon   him? 


Was  it  in  a  Stratford  alley 
Patched    with   moonlight, 

That  the  tousled   lad  went  reeling 
Through   the   shadows, 

Staring  at  the  brown  earth's  pallor, 

Hearing   laughter   from  the   doorways 
Faint   and   die? 

Was  it  in  an  April  meadow 

Stained   with   beauty 
When  he   lay  upon  the   blossoms, 

Graceless,  truant, 

That  the   pushing   life   possessed   him 
And  he  rose  with  face  uplifted 

Strangely  smiling? 

Was  it  in  a  street  in  London, 

Grey  with  winter, 
When  he  saw  a  mist  of  faces 

Pass  before  him, 

That  he   felt  with   sudden   burning 
Torches  of  their  coming  flicker 

In  his  brain? 


83 


THE  POET 

THOUGHT  broods  as  a  dove 
In  the  secret  brain.    But  one 
With  a  gesture  that  men  love, 
Uplifts  it  to  the  sun. 
He  breathes  upon  the  folded  wings, 
And  lo!   it  stirs — it  sings! 


84 


POETRY 

RHYTHM  of  the  blood, 
And  its  secret  pain, 
The  tumult  of  dim  tides 
Behind  the  brain; 

Passion  that  lifts  to  peace 
As  the  voice  of  birds 
In  rainy  April  sky; 
Oh  this  —  in  words! 


85 


IN   THE    SUBWAY 

THE  pale-lipped  workers  do  not  move  me  so, 
As   these   complacent   seekers   after   joy. 
They  never  come  to  grips  with  anything; 
Their    soft   hands    have    not   touched    the    rough   of    life 
That   brings   raw   blood   to   the   surface ;    they  have    felt 
No  stabbing  lust  for  beauty  or  bold   sin. 
Warm    furred    and    decent,    smiling    so    dreamlessly, 
They  hurt  my  heart;   their  eyes,   so   unafraid, 
Fill  me  with  terror.     God !  they  know  it  not, 
But  they   are  wistful — earth's  most  wistful   ones! 
The  thin,  dark  workers,  burned  as  though  with  fire, 
Swaying  in  pallid  sleep,  and  pinched  with  want, 
Are  not  so  pitiful,  so  stark  as  these. 


THE  DREAM 

IS   it   not    strange  that  in  this  costly  silk, 
As    exquisite    as    a    flower,    I    should    be    sad? 
Upon   my  breast  is   lace   like   moonlit  haze 
Of  blossoms.     See !  the  folds  as  white  as  milk 
Across  my  shoulders,  and  my  gems  ablaze. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  .  .  .  And  now  I  know  .  .  . 

They  came — 

A   ghostly  crowd  of  girls  with   eyes  too   bright 
And  wistful.     Ah !   I  could  not  hide  my  tears ! 
One   child,   as  vivid   as   a   slender   flame, 
Was   fashioning  June   roses   with   her   shears; 
Their   crimson   petals   left  her  young  lips   white. 

Another  little   one   with  hands   as   pale, 
As  the  soft,  misty  lace  her  touch  caressed, 
Wove  all  her  star-like  loves  and  fantasies 
Into   its  web  until  its  beauty  frail 
Was  part  of  her;  but  yet,  with  aged  knees 
This  little  one  crept  homeward  dimly  drest. 

Ah,  God !     A  third  with  hair  as  bright  as  corn, 
Who   flashed   her   slender  needle   in   a   dream, 
Looked  up  at  me.     Her  eyes  were  dark  with  pain. 
Then  I  awoke,  and  it  was  sunny  morn ; 
But  in  the  dawn  there  was  for  me  no  gleam — 
And  I  can  never  wear  the  dress  again. 

87 


TO    INEZ   MILHOLLAND    BOISSEVAIN 

HERE,    here,    are    autumn    flowers,    and    these    were 
sweet 

To  you — the   colors   of  the   happy   earth. 
And   here   are   songs   and    loves  woven  of  mirth 
You  wore   as  a  bright  robe;   and  yet  your  feet 
Were   used  to  linger  on   a  darkened   street. 
You    bent   your    radiant    head    before    the    birth 
Of  woe ;  and  souls,  counted  of  little  worth, 
You   championed   where  Want   and   Sorrow   meet. 

Yet,  from  your  sweet  and  valiant  summoning 
To   joy   and    service,   one   clear   bugle   call 
Will    echo — leap   from   peak  to    shining   peak 
Of  the  years  to  be,  and  on  dull  ears  shall  fall 
With    sudden    glamour.     Womanhood    shall    seek 
And  find.    Justice  shall  be  a  mighty  thing! 


88 


AN  OLDER  WOMAN  TO  A  YOUNGER 

To   Dr.   Anna   Howard   Shaw 

GIVE  pause  ere  we  begin  the  fight  again. 
My  child,  my  child,  you  take  it  so  to  heart! 
Look  in  my  eyes.     I   am  not  daunted,  I 
Who  have   seen  darkness  climb  the  golden   peaks 
Of  precious  dreams,  and  felt  the  creeping  frost 
Among  the  blossoms  of  my  heart.     I  know 
That  morning  always  breaks;  that  April,  too, 
Has  never  failed,  and  so  I  smile  and  wait. 
Meanwhile,   you    child,    with   bitter,    stormy    eyes, 
Remember  that  the  fight  is  best  of  all ! 
As  in  the  spring,  when  nature's  fettered  hosts, 
The  upward   reaching  ones,  conspire  to   rend 
The  iron  bands  of  winter  on  the  earth, 
And  in  a  blessed  union  drink  of  life 
Within  each  other  till  they  throb  as  one, 
And  break  from  gloom,  bright,  winged  victories, 
So  for  us,  fighting,  is  the  battle  sweet; 
And  wholesome  are  its  bitter,  black  defeats. 
Our  groping  hands   are  touching  other  hands 
That  hold  us  in  the  darkness,  and  our  hearts 
Are    quickened    by   the    pulsing   of   the    hearts, 
That  we  have  grown  to  love  so  near  to  us. 
My  darling,  if  you  could  but  hear  with  me 
Our  silent  legions  marching  up  the  dawn ! 


Unfurl  your  yellow  banner,  child,  and  go! 
Ah !  yes,  it's  sunset  now  and  autumn,  too ; 
But  what  a  stirring  march  we  have  toward  spring! 

November,   1915 


90 


A  YOUNGER  WOMAN  TO   AN  OLDER 

To   Dr.   Anna   Howard    Shaw 

17 

SO — Victory   at   last! 
Over   the   top    our   yellow    banners   go; 
Glamour  is  in  the  golden  air; 
A   great   joy   shakes   our   pulses. 
Yet,  the  sunset  holds  the   richness. 
We,  the  young,  may  never  know 
The    dauntless   will   that   held    the   falling   sky, 
The  faith  that  marked  the  invisible  climbing  stars, 
The   love   that   never   broke   the   handclasp. 
Ah!     The  bitter  glory — 
We,  the  young,  may  never  know ; 
We  of  the  joyful  heart  may  never  know. 

November,   1917. 


TO  A  TRAINED  NURSE 

I  SAW  a  dogwood  tree,  last  Spring, 
In    a   dark   valley. 
It  was  an   austere  day  of  mist, 
And  the  gray  hedges  were  sobbing. 
But,  bending  down  in  the  twilight, 
The  dogwood   showed  a  coif  of  white ; 
Gleaming   and   tender, 

It  touched  with  compassionate  sweet  hands 
The  wan,  sleeping  wood. 

So,  in  this  dim  room, 
You  bend  down  to  my  youth, 
Lying  with  shadowed  eyes, 
Fettered   in  the   frost  of  pain. 

Like  a  proud  tree 

That  wrings  the  sap  of  strength 

From    black    days, 

You  stand  in  the  twilight 

And  bend  down  to  me. 

Your  coif  is  a  white  blossom, 

Your  hand  is  a  blossom, 

And  your  breast  .  .  . 


ON  REVISITING  BARNARD  COLLEGE 

SUNSET  is  in  the  porch, 
And  through  the  hall 
The  dusk  is  blown 
Like  a  faint  breath. 

I  see  my  hands 
Remote,  in  shadow ; 
I  feel  my  heart 
As  a  remembered  pain. 

Up  the  grey   stairs 
The  twilight  climbs. 

In  a  dream 

The  twilight  climbs 

To  the  classrooms 

Of  forgotten  faces, 

To  the   studies 

Where  the  books  are  folded, 

To  the  chapel 

Of  the   silent  voices. 

In  a  dream 

The  twilight  climbs. 


93 


TO   THE   HUDSON   RIVER 

RIVER  of  dawn  that  saw  the  sun  go  down, 
The  gulls  drift, 
And  the  hills  are  russet-gray! 
No  more  the  gray  sail  that  I  loved  to  shift 
Upon  the  wind; 
A  bitter  wind  has  carried  it  away. 


94 


D 


HICKORY  FIRE 

O  you  know  a  fire  of  hickory? 
Do  you  love  its  whispering? 


As  I  sit  and  watch  it,  face  between  my  hands, 

The  city  room  has   slipped   away — and  I'm   at  home. 

The  shadowy  chairs  are  drawn  within  a  circle  .  .  . 

Yes,  they  all  are  here; 

Even  the  old  dog  nods  in  his  warm  place. 

Hark !     The  ancient  tree 

That  leans  against  the  roof,  is  muttering. 

I  think  it  knew  the  hickory  we're  burning  now. 

Now?     Ah!     What  fires  like  this  will  do! 


95 


SAFE 
To  R.  R.  M. 

THERE  is  a  chamber  in  my  heart 
Close  curtained  from  the  years, 
Where  the  lonely  days  go  crying 
To  blind  me  with  their  tears. 

You  are  always  waiting,  darling, 
Within  that  secret  place, 

And  the  mist  of  the  world's  crying 
Passes  by  your  face ; 

And  the  dreams  of  the  world,  dying, 

Can  never  hurt  you  now, 
Beautiful  forever, 

With  a  dream  on  your  brow. 


96 


BARE  BRANCHES 


97 


NIGHT  FELL 

NIGHT   fell   one  year   ago,   like   this. 
He   had    been   writing   steadily. 
Among  these   dusky   walls  of   books, 
How   bright   he   looked,   intense   as   flame! 
Suddenly  he   paused, 
The  firelight  in  his  hair, 
And   said,   "The  time   has  come  to  go." 
I   took   his   hand ; 
We   watched   the   logs   burn   out; 
The  apple  boughs  fingered  the  window; 
Down  the  cool,  spring  night 
A   slim,   white  moon   leaned   to  the  hill. 
To-night  the  trees  are   budded  white, 
And  the  same  pale  moon  slips  through  the  dusk. 
O    little   buds,   tap-tapping   on   the   pane, 

0  white  moon, 

1  wonder   if  he   sleeps   in   woods 
Where  there   are   leaves? 

Or  if  he  lies  in  some  black  trench, 

His  hands,   his  kind   hands,   kindling  flame   that  kills? 

Or  if,   or   if  ... 

He  is  here  now,  to  bid  me  last  good-night? 


99 


THERE'S  A  LILY  FIELD 

THERE'S   a   lily   field   in   France   to-night. 
In    the    icy    rain, 
At  its  frozen  heart,  they  buried  a  lad 

With   a   crimson   stain 
On  his  lips.     He  gave  France  all  he  had ; 

He  was  brave  and  gay. 

Dear  lilies  of  France,  how  bright,  how  bright, 
Will  you   bud  this  May! 


Translated  into   French   by  Nathan  Haskell  Dole  and 
set  to  music  by  Louise  Souther. 


100 


THE   DOCTOR 

THE  boy  lay  stripped  of  beauty, 
Gathering  shadows  with  his  hands. 
He  did  not  see  the  candles  blazing; 
He  was   not  held   by  their  golden  bands. 

Love  had  lain  upon  his  breast, 
Imperious;   he  had   not   stirred. 
Poetry  had  whispered  him; 
But  his  dim  temples  had  not  heard. 

Shadows    were    drifting    down    as    leaves, 
As  clouds  of  leaves  .  .  .  for  him  .  .  . 
A  bell  .  .  .  rang  .  .  .  like  a  faint  star 
In  ...  the  sky  .  .  .  broken  .  .  .  and  dim  . 

Beating  against  his  throat,  the  sweet 
Breath  came.     The  cold  and   falling  sky 
Climbed   slowly,   arching  into   sleep ; 
The  starry  candles  clustered  high. 

The  Doctor  paused  upon  the  blood 
Flowing   in   the    delicate   veins, 
And  slowly  smiled  as  one  who  hears 
Spring  tremble  in  the  dark  lanes. 

The   Doctor's  hands  were   strange  hands, 
Chiselled   coldly  out  of  pain ; 
And  yet,  they  bore   the   bright  torch 
Of  beauty  to  the  clouded  brain. 
101 


AT  THE  MOVIES 

THEY  swing  across  the  screen  in  brave  array, 
Long  British  columns  grinding  the  dark  grass. 
Twelve   months   ago   they   marched   into   the   gray 
Of   battle;    yet    again    behold    them   pass! 

One  lifts  his  dusty  cap;  his  hair  is  bright; 

I  meet  his  eyes,  eager  and  young  and  bold. 
The  picture  quivers  into  ghostly  white; 

Then  I  remember,  and  my  heart  grows  cold ! 


102 


THE  FOUR 

FOUR  went  with   singing,   and  the   drouth 
Of  war  is  bitter  to   the  mouth. 
But  even  so,  they  sang — the  one 
With  blown  hair  like  the  copper  sun, 
The  one  who  had  the  downy  lip, 
One  with  the  jaunty  belted  hip, 
And  one  who  whistled  like  a  bird, 
Too  light  for  the  slow  spoken  word. 

Night   fell   upon   the   Yankee   camp, 
And   suddenly  the   surgeon's  lamp 
Flashed  on  the  thickly  shadowed  place 
Where  four  men  lay  with  upturned  face. 

"Lone  star,  burning  in  the  sedge 
Of  the   southern   river's  edge  .  .  ." 

"And   the   pines   the   moonlight   shake 
On  the  darkened  northern  lake  .  .  ." 

"Where  the  sunset  mountains  stand 
High   above   the   purple   land  .  .  ." 

"City  of   spires  upon  the   sea 
Fronting  the   dawn  .  .  ." 

The  voices  fainted  .  .  .  and  were  gone, 
10? 


THE  NURSE  SPEAKS 

I'VE    seen    some    brave    men    die,    but    none    like    him. 
I  don't  know  why  I  went  to  him  so  much; 
He   didn't  call  or  groan. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  youth.     His  hands  were  young, 
And  fluttered  all  night  long  like  pale,  white  moths, 
Like  pale,  white  moths  that  have  been  burned  in  flame. 
Poor  lad !  his  head  was  torn. 

I  bathed  his  hair  and  even  in  the  night  I  saw  its  gold. 
Never  a  letter  did  he  have  on  him; 
He  never  spoke  a  name  that  I  could  hear ; 
But  just  those  hands  would  flutter  all  night  long. 

"Oh!     I'm   dog  tired   to-night. 

Jess,  pour  some  tea, 

And   then,    a   nap 

Before    my    Turco    wakes  .  .  ." 

Then  last  night  when   I   went,  his  hands  were   still. 
He  raised  his  eyes,  and  said  right  clear  to  me: 
"I  hear  the  sea!" 

Imagine  hearing  that  in  this  red  place ! 
And  then  he  stared. 

He   stared   at  my  white  cap.     His   eyes  were  bright. 
"Dear  love,"  he  said,  "the  hawthorn's  budded  white!" 
Yes,  Jess,  that  was  the  end  of  him,  poor  lad, 
And  never  a  name  or  letter  to  be  had. 


104 


T 


THE   BRETON 

1O-NIGHT  I  hear  the   drowsy  call   of  frogs 
And  the  lip-lipping  of  the  tide 


Up  the  salt  creek; 

And   I   can   hear   the   distant,   barking   dogs 

Across  the  starlit  countryside  .  .  . 

I    died    last    week, 

Or  so  they  tell  me  now, 

Fighting  for  France  inland. 

I   can't   remember   how. 

I've  forgotten  the  whole  story. 

All  I  want's  my  little  dory 

Hauled   up   on  the   sand. 


105 


OUR  MOTHER  OF  THE  TRENCHES 

A  LITTLE  mouse  stole  out  in  the  dark, 
And    peering   amid   the   straw, 
Quoth  he,  "Was  never  so  dim  a  churcfe," 
And  this  he  saw: 

In   a  tunnel  of  dirt  where  the   rain   dripped   through, 

The  Virgin  carved  of  pine, 
Smiled   in   a  candle's   shriveled   flame — 

A  smile  divine. 

A  grey  bat  fluttered  down  from  his  perch 

Of    crumbling    leaves.     "No    word 
Of  priest  is  here,  nor  bell,"  quoth  he. 

But  this  he  heard: 

He  heard  the  Beast  that  roared  above 

In   the   pitiful   barren   wood ; 
And  then  a  stumbling  fall,  a  cry, 

And  the  drip  of  blood. 

A  worshipper  crouched   by  the   darkening   shrine 

Of  the  Virgin  smiling  there. 
The  mouse  looked  up  and  the  bat  looked  down 

To   hear   his   prayer. 

The  Beast  roared  on  in  the  wood  above, 

The  candle  light  was  gone ; 
And  still  before  Our  Mother  knelt 

The    worshipper    wan. 

106 


THE    SHARPSHOOTER 

IT'S   not   so   bad   to   kill    in   the    dusk 
Of  a  growling  winter  day. 
When   a  man  is  tired,  and  stiff   as   a   husk, 

It   seems   a   merciful  way 
To    end    it    all,    perhaps.     From    my    tree 

Where  I   watch  the   road  below, 
I   send   pale   peace — an   eternity 

Of   peace   in   the   pitiless   snow. 

"But   spring!     Ah!     what   about   spring?"      I   think, 

When  the  little  leaves  are  green, 
And    buds   hold    dew   for   the   birds   to   drink, 

Then,   when   I   have  to   lean 
Against   white    blossoms,    and    blaze    away 

At  a  lad  with  the  sun  on  his  hair, 
And   red   in   his  cheek   from  the   kiss   of   May, 

God!   but  it  won't  seem  fair! 


107 


Y 


EUGENE  SUREAU,  79th  TERRITORIALS 

(After   reading   "THE   NAME"   in   the  Atlantic) 
OU   write  that  he   is   dead,   Eugene   Sureau  .  .  . 


From   the   time   they   brought   him   in, 
His   straight  young   body   shrapnel-torn, 
Until   he   died   smiling   at  your   white   tenderness, 
You   wondered   what  he   was. 
Still   warm   within   his   shroud, 
The  purple  cross   upon  his  breast, 
He    wrung   your    heart. 
There,  in  the  darkened  ward,  you  cried, 
"Who   was  Eugene   Sureau?" 
Do  you   remember  the   laughing  boy 
Who  used  to  cut  you  hazel  wands? 
He  wore  round  caps  and  corduroy, 
And  his  hair  was  rumpled  and  curly  brown. 

Have  you  forgotten  the  lad  who  dreamed 
All  day  with  grave  blue  eyes,   apart 
From  the  rest  of  you?     So  strong  he  seemed, 
So  sure  to  do  fine  things  some  day. 
And   there  was  one   who  loved  to  ride, 
And  challenged  you  under  the  open  sky, 
As    you    laughed,    free    galloping    side    by    side, 
To   race  him  over  the  bright  world's  rim. 
There   were   others — you   can't   forget   them — 
Young,   with   a   dream.     And   lo ! 
These   were   all   Eugene    Sureau. 
108 


BY  THE  LANES  OF  AIR 

MY   lover  to   battle   is   gone   to-day 
By  the  misty  lanes  of  air. 
I  smiled  as  my  lover  flashed  away, 
Climbing  the  cloudy  stair. 

But  now   I   weep   for   I   cannot   know 
The    land    where    he    lightly    runs. 

The    clouds    are    his    forests    peaked    with    snow, 
His   leaves    are   the   whirling   suns. 

If  only  a  little  frog  could  sing 

In  his  ear  from  a  meadow  pool; 

If  only  a  swallow  on  the  wing 

Could  pass  in  the  evening  cool! 

I   cannot   come   to   him    riding   far, 
Like    an   eagle   against   the   blue ; 

And  yet,  when   rises  the  sunset  star 
And  the  day  of  war  is  through, 

In  the  west  where  the  sky  is  barred  with  red, 
And  the  blue  with  stars  is  strown, 

That  banner  of  light  shall  be  the  bed 
Forever   beside   my   own! 


109 


"THERE  IS  NOTHING  TO  REPORT" 

News  Item :  "An  Austro-Hungarian  patrol  attacked 
by  surprise  a  Russian  advance  post  south  of  Karpilovka 
and  annihilated  its  occupants. 

"The  official  statement  said:  'The  night  was  calm. 
There  is  nothing  to  report' " 

itr\  ^HE  night  was  calm.     There  is  nothing  to  report." 

•*•     Nothing    for    Vienna's    haughty    court; 
But  the  pastures  where  the  pale  stars  go, 
Like  little,   straying  sheep,  they  know,  they  know. 
All  the  budded   lanes  of  heaven  break 
Into    a    gentle    singing    for   their    sake, 
For   those   who    swiftly   in   the   bitter   night 
Took  the  dark  leap  from  all  of  earth's  delight. 

Crumpled  like  grey  leaves  the  outpost  lie 

Forever   where    they   fell    beneath   that   sky 

Of  calm.     One   face   is  young,   a   poet's   face, 

Serenely  lifted  to  the  hush  of  space. 

With  bright  head   pillowed  on  his  listless   arm, 

He   dreamed   like   this  when  came  the  night   alarm. 

Somewhere  in  a  frost  stained  cottage  now 

A  woman's  hands  will  grope  for  that  white  brow ; 

And  God,  who  lights  the  candles  of  the  earth, 

Alone  will  know  one   darkened  taper's  worth. 


110 


PATROL 

IN   the  pale  moonlight  the   road   is  white 
As   my   cheek,   the   open    road   that   he   took. 
God !     If   it  were   May  with   a   dusky  nook 
Of  leaves  for  him,   and  his  horse  to  hide! 
But  all  night  long  he  must  ride  and  ride, 
With    his   breast    agleam    and    his   helmet   bright 
In    the    white    moonlight,    the    white    moonlight! 


Ill 


THE  FUGITIVE 

THE  crab  tree  like  an  ugly  dwarf 
Was   sprawling  in  the  moon, 
But  Oh!    its   knotted   arms  were  full 
With    the    sweet    leaves    of   June! 

Beside  the  moonlit  lane  there  lay 

A  little  house  of  stone ; 
Close  to  the  sprawling  tree  it  lay, 

Darkened    and    alone. 

No  one  had  thought,  to  see  it  lie 
So  darkened  there,  and  still, 

That  it  would   startle   suddenly 
At  hoof-beats  on  the  hill — 

At  the  sound  of  hoof-beats  coming  thick 
As  hailstones  in  June  rain, 

Filtering  through  the  trees,  and  then 
Muffled    along    the    lane. 

The   little  house  winked  fearfully 

A  shining,  furtive  eye 
That  closed   again,   and   slept  beneath 

The  quiet  curve  of  sky. 

112 


And   there   was   silence   as  clear   and   soft 
As  the  dew  on  the  hushed  grass; 

What  was  the  shape  that  wavered  there 
In  the  lane?     Did   a  shadow  pass 

Out  of  the   door  of  the   darkened   house, 
When  the  moon   plunged   into  cloud  ? 

The  horses'  hoofs  beat  on  the  stone; 
Their   ringing   was   long   and   loud. 

But  the  little  stone  house  slept  dark  and  still; 

Not   even   a   fagot's   glow 
Lay  on  the  hearth,  when  the  riders  searched 

The  chimney  black  and  low — 

The  chimney  and  the  empty  rooms, 
With  their  squatting  empty  chairs ; 

Only    the    phantom    shadows    fled 
Up  the  echoing,  crazy  stairs. 

The    riders   cursed    and    rode    away. 

The  crab  tree  saw  the  light 
Of  the   low  moon  on   their  crests   and  spurs — 

For    it    had    keen    eyes    that    night. 

The   crab   tree   like   an   ugly   dwarf 

Was   sprawling  in  the   moon, 
But   Oh!    its   knotted    arms   were   full 

With  the  sweet  leaves  of  June! 


113 


LITTLE  WHITE  CURTAINS 

LITTLE  white,  curtains  that  stirred  soft  wings, 
The   night  he  came — 
That  night  of  stars  and  a  blossom  moon, 
Now,   though   the   June   wind   sings   and   sings 

Just  the   same, 
Little  white  curtains,  your  wings  are  still, 

For   he  cannot  come; 
The  guns  are  booming  beyond  the  hill, 

But    he    is    dumb, 
This  night  of  stars   and   a  blossom  moon. 


114 


THE    FROGS    OF    FLANDERS 

""|\/T OTHER,    the    bud    of    moon    is   torn 

-LV.1.  Upon  the  broken  tree; 
But   the   marsh    frogs   are   making 
Song  for  me." 

"The  frogs  are  making  April  song 

For    Flanders,    son, 
In   the    sight  of   torches, 

The  sound  of  gun. 

"The  marsh  frogs  watch  the  ruined  sun 

With   placid   eye. 
Placid    they   watch    at   night 

The    bitter    sky. 

"They    make    spring    song    for    Flanders, 

Knowing,    knowing, 
That   under   frozen   valleys 

A    flame    is    going. 

"A   flame,   a   flame   is  going 

Through  the  grasses'  veins, 
Firing   the    reeds'    tapers 

Up    the    dim    sea    lanes. 

"There  is  no  Hun  can  banish 

This   beautiful   green    thing, 
And    so    the   frogs   of   Flanders 

Sing — and    sing." 


115 


THE  TORCH   OF  LIBERTY 

THE  lily  fields  of  France  are  grey, 
And  in  the  bitter  rain 
The    fettered    ghosts   of   Belgium   pray 

In   sorrow   and   in   pain. 
They  pray  in  sorrow  and  in  pain, 

And  with  them  Poland  cries 
For  golden  candle-light  again, 
In   blackened   fields   and   skies. 

The  English  coast  is   still   and   dark, 

But   suddenly   is   borne 
Above    the    spires    of    London — hark! 

An    English   bugle   horn. 
Above  the  London  spires,  a  horn ! 

Across  the   sea  it  thrills 
A  Sister  Nation's  heart  at  morn 

Upon   a   thousand  hills! 

O  Ye,  contemptuous,  who  dare 

To  shackle  sea  and  land, 
While   a   dishonored   sword   ye   bear. 

Behold,    a    mighty   hand ! 
From  out  the  west  a  mighty  hand 

To    smite    all    tyranny; 
For  one  king  only  shall  command, — • 

The  King,  Democracy! 

116 


Within  the  east  the  Torch  is  lit, 

And   challenging   their   fears, 
The  Russian  people  carry  it 

With   singing  and   with  tears. 
With   us,   they   carry   it   in   tears, — 

The   precious   Torch  of  fire, 
Bright  with  the  heat  of  bitter  years 

And  ultimate  desire. 

CHORUS 

America!     America! 

The  star-crowned   and  the  free, 
Thy  Torch   shall  flame  around  the  world, 

The  Torch  of  Liberty! 


117 


THE  WOMEN  SPEAK 

THE  stars  are  slipping  down  in  golden  shoals, 
The   birds   are  crying   in   the   early   light; 
Among  the  hills  of  home  the  russet  knolls 
Are  pricking  into  green  upon  the  sight. 
Our  hearts  are  freshly  green ;  again  we  hold 
The  vigor  of  the  year.     Upon  our  brows 
The  ageless  dreams  are  stamped  like  stars  of  gold 
With  which  the  precious,  early  day  endows 
The  sky.     Oh!  not  in  vain  that  we  are  tall 
And  resolute  with  eyes  as  clear  as  spring; 
The  secret  flame  that  hears  the  April  call 
Leaps  in  us  at  our  country's  summoning; 
And  though  the  whirlwind  ride  upon  the  land, 
We   will  not  falter  —  we  will   firmly  stand ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


ronn  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


Mast  in  - 


PS 

3525 

M394g 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000  927  955     5 


